Sushi no Subete
by Imadra Blue
Summary: Some people never appreciate what they have until it’s gone. It takes nine years, eleven months, and five different sushi comparisons, but Superbi Squalo eventually gets it. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Pairing:** Squalo/Yamamoto (S80)  
**Disclaimer:** _Katekyō Hitman Reborn!_ and all its characters are property of Amano Akira. No copyright infringement is intended.  
**Written For**: KHR Fest on LJ. Prompt: _16. Squalo/Yamamoto: Sushi, "Put the whole thing in your mouth"_  
**Notes:** This story deals with the nine years and ten months that lead up to the Future arc, as well as the Future arc itself. The title is in Japanese and roughly translates to "All About Sushi."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Superbi did not know which was stranger—the assortment of raw seafood before him or the man with the bright smile that sat across the table—a man who had been a boy only two years ago. Yamamoto Takeshi had always seemed strange—a natural born killer with a heart of gold—but now his broad shoulders and the tilt of his head made Superbi feel strange, too.

"I hope you like it. My father helped me make the sushi, but I cut the sashimi myself."

"The deal was that I eat this shit only if you gave me a fight. That wasn't a fight, you fucking piece of trash, it was a waste of my fucking time!"

Yamamoto laughed, and that, at least, reminded Superbi of the boy he first met. "Maybe it wasn't the fight you wanted, but it was a fight. You jumped me while I was practicing. I don't know what you expected from me." He poked at the bandage on his forearm, but Superbi did not feel guilty in the slightest—if the idiot was not going to keep aware of his surroundings, then he should just thank whatever passed for God in Japan that he had not lost his arm.

"Don't hand me that bullshit. If you're still wasting your time on baseball, then you're no swordsman!" Superbi speared a piece of tuna sashimi with his fork and shoved it in his mouth. The rich, clean taste exploded in his mouth. He tried not to look as if he enjoyed it. It would not do to let Yamamoto think he enjoyed anything he had made.

"I'm a baseball player, too."

"That's your problem, right there!" Superbi thrust a fork at Yamamoto's face. "You're distracted."

"I can handle both. Both baseball and the sword are important to me."

"That's shit, you trash. You cannot compare them. Baseball is a game." Superbi rolled a piece of sushi across the plate and grabbed his knife to cut it in half.

"And you're telling me that swordsmanship isn't—" Yamamoto paused and stared at Superbi cutting his sushi piece in half with horror. Superbi did not know until that moment that Yamamoto was even capable of such an expression. "What are you doing?"

Superbi speared a loose piece of crab and popped it in his mouth. "Preparing to fork your eyeballs out and serve them over rice if you suggest sword-fighting is a game."

"Not that. You just cut a piece of maki in half, and you're eating the ingredients individually."

"You say that as if I just stabbed your sister to death."

"If I had a sister, I might feel like that." Yamamoto covered his mouth with his hand. "Please don't let my father see you doing that."

"What the hell is your problem?"

"I can't even begin to explain right now. Just put the whole thing in your mouth. You're not supposed to cut it up. It's all or nothing with sushi."

"Just like the sword, then!" Superbi cut another piece of sushi in half and grinned at Yamamoto's expression. "You comparing swordsmanship to a child's game makes me feel like you look."

Yamamoto winced again. "I'm going to need more sake to get through this." He pulled a large bottle across the table and poured some into two adorable little Japanese cups. Superbi wondered what it was with the Japanese and their love of tiny things. Tiny trees, tiny phones, tiny cups, and even tiny people—except for Yamamoto, who seemed determined to singlehandedly break the stereotype—all six feet plus of him.

When Yamamoto handed him one of the dainty cups, Superbi downed the sake in one gulp. He managed not to spit it out by some miracle, despite the burning on his tongue. It took him a moment to speak again. "You know that this shit tastes like shit, right? You need some good Italian red wine in here, not this distilled rice vinegar or whatever the fuck it is. Fucking floor cleaner, probably."

"Floor cleaner?" Yamamoto burst into laughter and poured them both more sake. "You're really funny, Squalo."

Despite the sour chemical taste, Superbi drank make sake and sneered. "Funny, huh? Don't forget that I handed you your ass during your little baseball practice earlier. How funny was that?"

Yamamoto's eyes narrowed, even though his smile remained wide. "And I handed you your ass during the ring battle. Don't forget that." He poured Superbi another cup.

"You think so? I think you got lucky." Superbi emptied his cup again. The room seemed a bit unstable, and Yamamoto's smile seemed predatory. Superbi held his empty cup and admired the lines of Yamamoto's long neck and broad shoulders. One could spend hours kissing the curve of Yamamoto's neck, if they wanted to, and never grow bored. Yamamoto poured another cup of sake, and Superbi drank that, too. The sake no longer burned, and instead left behind a rather pleasant sensation.

"I don't believe in luck," Yamamoto said as he poured Superbi more sake. "It's about what inside of you, and how you can sharpen it and focus it into something that makes people stand up and point. Baseball isn't exactly like sword-fighting, no, but it demands the same things out of you, and gives the same things in return. You've just never played baseball. That's why you don't understand."

"I understand." Superbi swallowed the contents of his cup. He no longer knew how many cups he had drunk. "I understand that you're an attention whore who wants people to be amazed by you."

Yamamoto leaned forward, distracting Superbi with the glint of the kitchen light on his glossy hair. Superbi imagined it to feel soft. He wondered if there was much of a difference between Asian hair and European hair, if Yamamoto's black hair would feel anything like Xanxus's. "Does trying to get the attention of only one person make you less of an attention whore, then?"

That stung. "You mean you haven't spent the last two years trying to get that worthless boss of yours to get on his hands and knees and beg you to fuck him raw?" Superbi drank yet more sake. It almost tasted sweet now, despite the bitter quirk in his belly caused by Yamamoto's retort.

Yamamoto no longer smiled. "Tsuna is not worthless."

"Right. Since I just struck a nerve, and I can't remember how much of this floor cleaner I've drunk, I think that's my signal to return to my hotel." Superbi tried to stand, only to fall back on his ass when the room spun. He probably should have stopped after the third cup, no matter how tiny the cups were.

Yamamoto's father walked in, carrying empty trays. He laid them on the counter and glanced at Superbi. It was hard to imagine that this worn middle-aged man was Yamamoto's father. The lines on his face obscured any semblance of the youth that Superbi associated with Yamamoto. In profile, he did not look that different, but everything about him screamed weariness—the opposite of his son.

"_Ano_," Yamamoto's father said. "Why is he staring at me?"

Superbi tried to answer, but he forgot what he wanted to say the moment he opened his mouth.

"Because he's drunk, Dad. I think I gave him too much sake. He can't go back to the hotel like this."

"I can go back. See, I can walk." Superbi managed to get to his feet, but when he took a couple of steps, the room tilted and he pitched over into Yamamoto's arms. "I totally walked. Did you see?"

Yamamoto laughed and patted him on the back. "I saw. Good job, Squalo."

"Ah, you're right, Takeshi. Well, since he's your friend, he can stay here."

"Thanks, Dad. I'll put him up in my room."

Superbi suddenly knew what it must feel like to be someone's pet goldfish. "Why are you ignoring me? I can walk." He tried to wriggle free from Yamamoto's arms, but only wound up flopping around.

"Relax," Yamamoto said as he threw Superbi over his shoulder. "My bed's as comfortable as any in a hotel."

"What?" Superbi blinked, trying to understand what Yamamoto meant. Was Yamamoto trying to seduce him, right there in front of his father? He squirmed a bit, but that made him feel like vomiting, so he fell limp over Yamamoto's shoulder. He stared down at Yamamoto's ass, watching the stretch of trousers as Yamamoto carried him up the stairs. It was a rather nice ass, with a beautifully rounded curve, and appeared quite firm. Being seduced by Yamamoto may not be so bad.

They entered a narrow hallway, and Yamamoto turned into a dark room. Before Superbi's eyes could adjust, Yamamoto dumped him onto something soft. Nausea and dizziness warred for control over his senses for a few moments before both subsided. Superbi focused back on his surroundings. He would not say the bed was better than the one he had at his hotel, but it was, at least, comfortable. He struggled to sit up, but Yamamoto pushed him back down.

"Take it easy. You had a lot of sake." Yamamoto tugged Superbi's trousers off. "Just because you're a shark doesn't mean you should drink like a fish."

Superbi groaned at the joke. "That was awful." He looked up and saw moonlight streaming through Yamamoto's window. The sun had set, and he had not even noticed. He had accomplished his mission and killed the yakuza who had threatened Xanxus the night before, so he would be expected back in Italy tomorrow. He should not have wasted the day on Yamamoto. He tried to sit up again, but the room transformed into a merry-go-round. Superbi sighed and lay back again. He would have to be a day late. No doubt, that would earn him a flower vase to the back of the head. Or worse. He hoped it was not a television set again.

"Are you sleeping already?" Yamamoto peered into his face and smiled. The moron always smiled, but never before had Superbi wanted to kiss him for it.

Definitely drank too much of that goddamn floor-cleaning Japanese swill.

Yamamoto sat on the floor beside the bed and stroked Superbi's face. Superbi shivered. No one really touched him like that except for Yamamoto. "Where did you come from, Squalo?"

"Italy." Words felt thick on Superbi's tongue, but they still came.

Yamamoto folded his arms on the bed and rested his chin, still staring at Superbi patiently, somehow asking more questions without speaking. His eyes held a warmth that could not be found anywhere else in Superbi's world. It was hard to match that to the boy who had somehow managed to best Superbi in the battle for the Rain Ring with sheer ingenuity, yet the contradiction seemed one of Yamamoto's defining qualities.

"I grew up in Rome. In an orphanage run by a church. The nuns there didn't have much time for any of us, and there wasn't much money. Nobody gives a shit about poor kids living in the slums, you know." Superbi stared up at the moonlight. It was easier to speak when he did not have to see Yamamoto staring at him with those damn puppy dog eyes. "When I was about seven or eight, the Vongola came by, looking for enforcers. They adopted me into the family, and I went to a school where a lot of other mafia brats went. I learned how to use a sword from a private tutor, though I always knew how to fight. You learn how when you want to keep your stuff safe from the bigger boys."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't need your damn pity, you fucking piece of trash. You think you're better than me just because you have a father and a home? Fuck you." Superbi managed to halfway sit, despite the blurring and whirling in his head. "I have a family. The Varia. The Varia is my family!"

"I know." Yamamoto shoved Superbi flat on the bed again. "My dad is my family, but so are Tsuna and all the rest. If it weren't for Tsuna, I'd be a nice red stain on concrete. So don't confuse my sympathy for pity."

Superbi blinked and stared at Yamamoto. He brain was too fuzzy to fully understand what Yamamoto meant, try as he might, but he understood enough to know Yamamoto's warm eyes held no pity. He sighed and settled back, finding that gaze oddly calming. Yamamoto smiled and started unbuttoning his coat. His fingers stroked Superbi's bared skin, and Superbi wondered what those fingers might feel like when wrapped around his cock. Would Yamamoto grip it the same way he did his katana?

Yamamoto peeled Superbi's coat off and draped it on a chair. He leaned over and kissed Superbi on the forehead. His lips felt moist. "Good night, Squalo."

Before Superbi could protest, Yamamoto stood and left the room. He closed the door softly behind him. Superbi lay back against the pillows and closed his eyes. It seemed he would not be seduced, after all. He shivered a bit, wishing he had not drunk so much. Why did Yamamoto leave? Was he not interested?

When Superbi opened his eyes, sunlight streamed through the window. He winced at the light and twisted the blinds shut after fumbling for the cord for a few moments. He did not remember falling asleep, yet morning had snuck up on him as quickly as the night before had. He stood up and pulled on his clothes, but saw no sign of Yamamoto. He walked outside, but the narrow hallway was empty. When he reached the kitchen, he found a Yamamoto, but not the one he was looking for.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Squalo." Yamamoto's father looked up from washing rice and smiled, a smile not nearly as bright as his son's. "Did you sleep well last night?"

Superbi scowled. "Like a rock."

"Good, good. If you're looking for Takeshi, he said to tell you that he was sorry, but he had to leave early for practice for his game. He's playing this afternoon, if you wanted to come."

"To watch a bunch of assholes wave sticks at flying balls? No thanks."

Yamamoto's father blinked for a moment and then started to laugh. "Takeshi was right. You really are hilarious. So straightforward!"

Superbi sneered. These Yamamotos were remarkably hard to offend. "You taught him his damn _Shigure Sōen_ style, right?"

Yamamoto's father raised an eyebrow, and his smile grew sharp. "Ah. So you're who he was training to fight against."

"Me?"

Yamamoto's father nodded and set the rice out to dry. "Usually, he only takes baseball seriously. You must have presented some challenge."

"A challenge, huh?" Superbi grinned. "You tell that brat of yours he better keep an eye on the mail. Because I'll show him a challenge."

"Oh? Takeshi will probably like that." Yamamoto's father chuckled. "I'll deliver the message."

"Right." Superbi slipped on his sunglasses and headed outside. He glanced around the quiet street. Namimori was such an average, mundane place. How did it keep spawning people like Yamamoto?

Superbi shook his head and started walking. He would give Yamamoto a challenge, all right. He would set that boy straight. No one else in this town would be able to understand him, and Superbi was not about to let Yamamoto's potential with a sword rot in favor of a piece of polished wood. One by one, piece by piece, he would show Yamamoto what being a Sword Emperor meant.

And since he was already in Japan, he might as well buy the camera he would need for the task.

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes:** Please see first chapter for story details and disclaimers.  
**Edited Notes:** This chapter's ending was extended by a couple of paragraphs, in order to segue better into the third part of the story.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The harder Yamamoto pressed the cloth to his wound, the more the blood soaked through the white material.

Superbi glared. "I take it you haven't been watching the DVDs, you piece of trash?"

Yamamoto smiled. It was just like that idiot to smile even with a gaping cut to the chin. "I have been watching them. Every single one. They're really funny."

"Funny?" Superbi drove his fist into Yamamoto's face. His knuckles stung from the impact. "You think they were _funny_?"

Yamamoto licked his bloody lip, his eyes narrowed. He stood up. Three years had made Yamamoto even taller than Superbi now, and Superbi had to tilt his head back to stare him in the eye. Blood dripped softly from the open wound on his chin and onto his white baseball uniform. His eyes seemed dark, and his body tense. Finally, after five years, Squalo saw the man who had defeated him in the battle for the Rain Ring again.

"If you thought they were funny, then you can just fucking die, far as I'm concerned!" Superbi spat.

More blood dripped from Yamamoto's chin as he grinned. "I thought they were incredible. They made me feel alive in a way I haven't felt since the last time we fought. But they were also really funny. In a good way."

Superbi scowled. "You think everything is funny, you fucking piece of trash! This isn't a game! Don't you see what is happening to the world around you? Boxes and rings and people killing each other off faster than ever!"

"Life's a game."

"You piss me off so bad I can't even look at you!" Superbi turned away and stalked away. He could not stand little pieces of shit that could not take anything seriously. For once, he thought he found someone who understood what it was like to throw himself wholeheartedly into something, to live for it, to mean it every second of every day, but all he had found was a punk who got lucky.

"Come back with me," Yamamoto called.

"What?" Superbi spun on his heel and stared at Yamamoto.

Yamamoto smiled. "Come back home with me. My father won't be back until morning." He pressed the cloth back to his chin. "I need someone to stitch me up."

"Why should I waste my time on trash like you?"

Yamamoto tilted his head and did not smile, for once. Instead, he only looked at Superbi with a look as intense as the driving rain. "Because I want you to."

"Fucking brat."

Yamamoto hefted his bag and started walking. "C'mon, Rapunzel. I'll make you some sushi, and you can even cut it with your knife and fork and make a mess like a real Western barbarian if it makes you happy."

"I told you not to call me Rapunzel, you fucking brat!"

Someone must have puppeted Superbi's actions. He could not be the kind of asshole who would actually follow Yamamoto home, especially after being insulted. Someone else had to have made him do it. That was why he walked just behind Yamamoto, watching the wind ruffle through that feathery black hair. He did manage, if nothing else, not to run his fingers through Yamamoto's hair. He had to retain some self-respect.

Yamamoto said nothing when they reached Takezushi. He simply led past the closed shop and into the kitchen. He pulled out a first aid kit and sat down with it. He stared up at Superbi expectantly as he put the bloodstained cloth down. Blood still trickled down his chin. "That was a nasty cut you gave me."

"You deserved it. Your swordwork has gotten sloppy."

"Has it? Then I really did deserve it."

Supberi sneered and snatched the first aid kit from Yamamoto's hands. After pulling out everything he needed, he swiped an alcohol pad over Yamamoto's wound. He waited for Yamamoto to hiss or complain, so he could point out his weakness, but all Yamamoto did was wince and stare at him with those dark eyes. Superbi slid the needle into Yamamoto's chin, but Yamamoto only winced again.

"I bet you think you're tough."

"I wasn't thinking that." Yamamoto ran a finger down Superbi's chin, as if to find out if Superbi bore a similar scar.

Superbi yanked his head away and continued to stitch up Yamamoto's chin. "Nice to know I wasted my time with those DVDs."

"I wouldn't say that. They helped me help Tsuna."

"So you've been helping your boss out? I thought you were going to the major leagues."

"I changed my mind. Your DVDs changed my mind. Besides, as you already pointed it out, the way this world is getting, Tsuna needs his friends more than ever. Friends are always the most important thing in life."

"Do you get this shit out of women's novels or something? You sound like a goddamn American greeting card."

"Do I?" Yamamoto smiled as Superbi finished stitching and placed a bandage over his cut. "Do they have greeting cards asking for someone to come up to their bedroom for sex? Because I think I'd like to send that to you. Right now, in fact."

Superbi paused and stared at Yamamoto. He did not think Yamamoto had it in him to be so direct. Yamamoto grabbed him by his front jacket and pulled him close, still grinning. It became a bit hard to think when Yamamoto's hand pressed against his crotch. Fuck.

"Are you going to answer my question?"

"I didn't hear a question. Don't forget you promised me sushi." Superbi pulled back and yanked Yamamoto up. Yamamoto's hand pressed even tighter between his legs, and Superbi's pants grew even tighter. He ached for something more satisfying than the mediocre fight Yamamoto had given him earlier. A small red spot had appeared on Yamamoto's bandage as he smiled. "You're still bleeding."

"Isn't that a turn on for a guy whose name means shark?"

"Smartass." Superbi demanded as he yanked Yamamoto after him, remembering his way up the stairs and into the narrow hallway. He usually did not sleep with men younger than himself, but it was not like Yamamoto was a child any longer. He was a grown man of twenty, and furthermore, a handsome man with eyes that practically fucked Superbi where he stood with a single glance.

Yamamoto chuckled and suddenly lurched forward. He pinned Superbi to the wall and started undoing his jacket. "I won't forget to make you sushi, don't worry," he whispered, his hand slipping inside Superbi's open jacket to stroke his chest.

"I want the tuna kind." Superbi leaned back and closed his eyes, letting Yamamoto have his way for the moment. Soft lips pressed against his neck and sucked gently. Superbi smiled a bit and indulged his earlier urge to stroke Yamamoto's hair. It felt silky, almost feathery, as he buried his fingers in it, much thicker than most of the Italian men he had been with. Yamamoto continued to stroke his chest, but that was not nearly enough for Superbi. He tugged on Yamamoto's hair. "Don't waste my time, brat."

"I guess slow sex can wait for later, then. Maybe after the sushi." Yamamoto kissed Superbi on the lips hard enough to steal his breath and undid his belt with a few quick tugs. "Do you like teeth?"

Superbi smiled in anticipation. "Fuck, yes."

Yamamoto grinned and kneeled down. His eyes were dark and lazy when he glanced up, and his smile held a rather pleasurable promise. He unzipped Superbi slowly, enough that Superbi squirmed at the tiny jolts of pressure. Superbi gasped when Yamamoto reached inside to pull him free. He had not felt this hot in a while, but then, he had not had sex in a while, either.

"You're already wet," Yamamoto said, holding up his thumb to illustrate his point.

Superbi tugged on Yamamoto's hair again. "Are you going to suck it or narrate it?"

Yamamoto laughed and leaned forward to take Superbi's entire length in. Superbi moaned, gripping Yamamoto's hair tighter, watching as Yamamoto took it all in until Superbi could feel the chin bandage against his inner thigh. Pressure and pleasure filled Superbi's mind, and he lost track of everything but Yamamoto's mouth on him and Yamamoto's hair under his fingers. When Yamamoto's teeth raked against his underside, and he came with a deep exhale. Definitely better than the shit fight Yamamoto had given him earlier.

Yamamoto stood up. He kissed Superbi again and ground his hips against Superbi's. Superbi took Yamamoto's tongue in his mouth and sucked for a moment, tasting himself. Superbi grinned and pushed Yamamoto back. "Get that ridiculous uniform off. It's not a turn on."

"Take yours off, too. I want to see you." Yamamoto peeled off his shirt and led Superbi into his room. He grinned as he closed the door and stripped down to his socks.

"Take those off, too." Superbi gestured at Yamamoto's feet. "It's not sexy." He may have exaggerated, because even wearing nothing but knee high white socks, Yamamoto was impressive. Superbi admired the smooth expanses of sun-kissed skin, dipping and curving around taut muscles, and strong shoulders that seemed made to grip during an orgasm. Tiny flecks of scars appeared here and there, but they only made Yamamoto seem more interesting.

As Yamamoto bent down to peel off his socks, Superbi rewarded him by peeling off his uniform. Yamamoto stood and grinned, bleeding a bit more through his bandage. He raked his gaze over Superbi's nude form. "You really are the most beautiful person I've ever seen," he whispered.

"Don't lay it on too thick. I was already going to suck your dick." Superbi shoved him back onto the bed.

Yamamoto laughed again. It was a sound that Superbi was starting to like, despite how stupid it made the brat seem. "I like teeth, too."

"Why am I not surprised?" Superbi climbed onto the bed and spread Yamamoto's legs. "Don't fuck my face, or I'll bite."

Yamamoto lounged back, propped up by his elbows, and grinned at Superbi—an expression that froze when Superbi bent down to return the favor Yamamoto had just performed for him. His smile soon melted into a silent gasp, his mouth forming a near-perfect "o." Superbi tried to watch Yamamoto as best he could as he worked. The brat's expressions were priceless. Yamamoto made a soft noise, and his head dropped back so Superbi could no longer see his face.

Superbi pulled away and moved up to peer into his face, gripping Yamamoto's thighs for support. Yamamoto blinked and stared up at him. "You stopped?" he asked in a wounded voice.

"Just making sure you're still paying attention."

Yamamoto leaned up and kissed him. He reached up to stroke Superbi's hair, his touch as soft as his kiss. "I'm paying attention, Squalo," he whispered between kisses. "I always pay attention to you."

Superbi kissed back and basked in the intimacy for a moment before he nipped Yamamoto's bottom lip. "Good." He slid back down and went back to work. Yamamoto soon rewarded him with a load moan. He gripped the sheets and yanked them towards him. His entire body strained against Superbi's touch. It did not take long for him to fill Superbi's mouth with salty sweetness. Superbi licked his lips as he sat up.

Arms seized him, and Superbi struggled for a moment until he realized Yamamoto was pulling him down beside him. He let Yamamoto draw him close, a bit curious as to what Yamamoto wanted. Yamamoto stroked his skin and kissed his forehead, smiling. "Thank you."

"Don't start saying stupid things again." Superbi should probably go back to his hotel, but he rather liked the warmth of Yamamoto's body, the gentleness of his touch, the comforting beat of his heart. Thinking so made him feel rather pathetic, but not pathetic enough to pull away. Superbi did not think the world produced people like Yamamoto anymore.

Yamamoto fell silent as he stroked Superbi. Eventually even his touch stilled. Superbi relaxed as Yamamoto's breathing evened out and stroked Yamamoto's bare chest, finally indulging him. The skin felt warm and firm beneath his fingertips. Superbi found it hard to pull his fingers away.

"Even though I'm still in the minors, I do work for the mafia some. Isn't that enough for you?" Yamamoto whispered.

Superbi started and glanced up at Yamamoto's face. He pushed on Yamamoto's chin bandage, watching the blood spread a bit further. Yamamoto winced. "Is it enough for you?" Superbi asked, lifting his finger.

"I love baseball. I know you don't understand, but—"

"I don't understand the game, I won't pretend to, but I understand the love. But the sword is like…" Superbi trailed off, trying to think of a proper metaphor, but none came to mind. Maybe he was too tired, too hungry. Yamamoto was supposed to have made him sushi, but—

And then the metaphor popped into his mind. "It's like sushi. You're not supposed to cut it in half and eat it in pieces. You have to stick the whole thing in your mouth. All or nothing, get it?"

Yamamoto laughed. "I get it. That's a funny metaphor."

"And you're just going to keep on doing your own thing, aren't you?"

Yamamoto kissed him again. "Come on." He sat up. "I promised you sushi. I'll make you the fatty tuna."

Superbi watched Yamamoto get up and pull on a pair of pants. He sighed and wished he knew what it would take to make Yamamoto understand.

Yamamoto spent almost an hour making Superbi the perfect collection of sushi. In the center of the intense spiral of color and raw fish on rice lay the fatty tuna. When Yamamoto sat across from him to eat his own plate, and looked over at him, his brown eyes filled with warmth and intensity and happiness and-- Superbi looked away. He did not want to see the rest of those emotions in Yamamoto's eyes. They asked too much of him, offered things that should not exist in their world.

The second time they had sex was slow and intense, just the way Yamamoto wanted it. Halfway, through, Superbi wanted it, too. Not just the sex, but that smile on Yamamoto's face when he rode him. Superbi wanted to see that smile every day. He found himself entranced by how one corner of Yamamoto's mouth curved higher than the other, how Yamamoto's eyelashes fluttered near orgasm, the way he breathed, slow and measured. He felt hot and tight and real, and when he kissed Superbi after he came, it felt like the first real kiss Superbi had ever had, making him forget all the others that came before it.

And that was why when he left the next morning, ignoring Yamamoto's father's odd looks as he walked past him, Superbi determined to cut all ties. Otherwise his life would be too damn complicated.

_To be continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes:** Please see first chapter for story details and disclaimers.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Yamamoto was the last person that Superbi expected to see when he entered his shitty boss's office. The past two years had not changed Yamamoto much. He sported a scar on his chin from their last encounter, and it made him look even more like a man. A blue baseball bat bag hung from his shoulder. Superbi snarled at it. Was Yamamoto still trying to piss him off?

"Voooi! What the hell are you doing here?"

Xanxus lounged in his huge chair, his feet up on his desk. He scowled at Yamamoto, and it took Superbi a moment to realize why. Yamamoto had caught a glass of scotch that Xanxus had tossed at him in mid-air. Superbi blinked.

"Where the fuck do you get off butting into my business?" Xanxus demanded.

"It's instinct to catch something thrown near me." Yamamoto set the glass down on Xanxus's desk.

"What's going on?" Superbi demanded before Xanxus started to go apeshit and set his desk on fire again.

Xanxus turned his red gaze on Superbi. "Sawada fucking destroyed the rings. All seven of them."

Sound burst out from Superbi's lungs loud enough to startle even him. "What?"

"Yeah. He fucking thinks that will protect his men. The fucking pussy." Xanxus glared at Yamamoto. "I don't fucking give a shit what that trash did. It's his problem, not mine. The Varia will still be here. Rings or no rings, the Vongola will remain strong."

Yamamoto just smiled. "I'll let him know what you said. Anyways, you have my message now, so. See you later." He walked out, brushing past Superbi without glancing at him.

Superbi watched Yamamoto walk away for a moment, then glanced back at Xanxus. "That's it? No repercussions for destroying those damn rings, after what--"

Xanxus smoldered. "Get the fuck out of here before I shoot you," he told Squalo. The rings had always been a sensitive topic after their failure to win them, but for Xanxus to act as if they did not matter seemed out of character. Superbi could only guess what new flames fueled Xanxus's behavior, but he had no time for them, not with Yamamoto there, right there, after two years. The time hardly seemed to matter, and as much as Superbi had avoided Yamamoto, now he could think of nothing else but seeing him again.

"Damn boss!" Superbi cried by way of parting and marched into the hallway. He spotted Yamamoto walking towards the foyer and stormed after him. "You fucking piece of trash! Who the hell do you think you are? I don't need you interfering with my boss!"

Yamamoto paused and half-glanced back. His gaze reminded Superbi of cold rain beating down on an empty sidewalk. Before Squalo could react, a fist drove his into jaw. Pain burst across his senses. "Two years. Two years, and you never responded to my phone calls or emails or you were always out when I came to Italy. And for what? Xanxus?"

Superbi rubbed his jaw, and yet, no anger came, despite the ache. Yamamoto's gaze killed his anger before it kindled. He looked away, thinking of how often he had listened to each and every one of Yamamoto's messages. He still kept them on his voicemail, each waiting for a response he never sent. "It's none of your business."

"None of my business?"

"Yeah, and I want to know about your real business here. Why the hell did Sawada destroy the Vongola rings?"

Yamamoto shook his head. "I bet you won't even comprehend it. He did it to protect us, to stop this insane ring scramble between the families. He wanted to protect his entire family, including the Varia. That is why we follow Tsuna. Because he gives a shit about us. What I don't get is why you follow a bastard like Xanxus. Why waste your time on someone incapable of appreciating it?"

How could Superbi explain in a way that someone like Yamamoto could understand? Could he even explain it in a way that Superbi himself could understand? In Xanxus, there lay a fire, a determination, that Superbi could never surpass, even in his most fervent moments of devotion to the sword. Xanxus never felt conflicted about anything, and his strength and passion were beyond any within Superbi's grasp. Superbi both envied that passion and wanted it for himself. Yet, he still could not properly explain why he stayed, after countless rejections, after thousands of objects breaking over his head.

"You stay with Tsuna because he needs you." Superbi stared at Yamamoto's collar, noting the crinkle of expensive blue Japanese silk. "It's no different with me and my boss."

"So where do I figure in?"

Superbi did not want to answer that question, so he shifted his gaze to the wall. A bit of paint had chipped off from one of the rare times that Xanxus threw a glass at him and missed. Silence hung between him and Yamamoto like a curtain, parting them. Superbi thought of how empty the past three years had felt, how often he listened to Yamamoto's recorded voice, how much it stung to find someone like Yamamoto, only for him to be more interested in a stupid game than swordsmanship, how their world would not allow them to--

"Relationships are just like sushi, too, you know," Yamamoto said. "Like the sword, I guess. You can't just eat in pieces. You have to put the whole thing in your mouth."

Superbi snapped his gaze back to Yamamoto's face. He saw hurt and anger in those eyes, and he realized that, for once, Yamamoto did not smile. For once, he did not wear his game face. He looked at Superbi with a naked expression.

"That's the stupidest metaphor I ever heard," Superbi replied.

"You started it."

"I would never say a stupid metaphor like that, you trash!"

"You did! You said the sword was like sushi before. And so are relationships."

Superbi snorted despite himself. "Do you remember every little thing I say?"

"Yes." It was Yamamoto's seriousness, that strange, almost unnatural stillness in his warm eyes that made Superbi believe him.

Which was why Superbi had to turn his head. He could not recall anyone in his empty life, from the cold hallways of a Catholic orphanage to the ostentatious hallways of the Varia's mansion, that looked at him with Yamamoto's warmth. "I don't need any more lectures about my fucking boss, all right?"

"I was talking about us."

Superbi glanced back at him. Yamamoto was such a stupid boy. He still could not understand who he and Superbi really were. They were killers, assassins, internationally-wanted criminals. Yet, Yamamoto stood there and talked about relationships as if he knew something about them.

"I'm not having this conversation in the hallway." Superbi turned on his heel and stormed up his steps, ignoring Lussuria's goofy smile and thumbs-up sign when he passed him on the second floor. Nosy queer.

Yamamoto followed Superbi up the stairs and into his bedroom, looking around. He lay his baseball bat bag against the bed and smiled. He looked more natural that way. "No paintings, no flowers, no decorations at all. What a plain room, Squalo."

"I don't need any frippy, useless shit." Superbi scowled at the bag. "I thought you said you were working for Tsuna full-time now?"

"So you did get my messages." Yamamoto pulled the baseball out and swung it. It transformed into a katana. Superbi recognized the blade. It was the same that Yamamoto used when Superbi first met him. "I can't use my father's blade. It's hard to charge with my ring. But this one takes the charge pretty well."

Superbi frowned. "A baseball bat sword? Still trying to walk two paths at the same time?"

Yamamoto stepped closer and sighed. "You act like that's a bad thing. I love both. But I love other things, too."

Superbi grabbed Yamamoto by his expensive silk shirt and kissed him before he said something they would both regret. Yamamoto kissed back, and for a long moment, Squalo savored the warm, wet feel of Yamamoto's mouth, the press of his tongue, the weight of his hands running up and down his neck and face.

But then Yamamoto pulled back. "It's not as simple as it was two years ago, Squalo. Do you think that you can distract me with sex again and sneak out later? Maybe have one of the other Varia kick me out in the morning? If you don't want me around, just say so."

Superbi froze. Yamamoto had grown cleverer. It had been so much easier when he left two years ago, nodding at Yamamoto's father on the way out before disappearing. Much easier than a relationship. Superbi only knew the Varia, his family. He did not know what to do with Yamamoto.

"Still can't say anything?" Yamamoto's eyes were intent, full of hurt, and for that moment, he seemed more alive than he ever had before. "You can face down any opponent, even death itself, but you can't just tell me you don't like relationships? You can't just cut me free?"

Superbi felt his face sting under laser-like intensity of Yamamoto's gaze, but he could not look away--he was transfixed. "Why do you keep coming to me? Don't you have someone in your own family? Your boss? The Storm brat?"

"Tsuna has Kyoko, and Gokudera has Haru." And there was hurt in Yamamoto's eyes over that, too. "Just like your boss has whatever it is that he has that isn't you."

"Don't ever mention that again."

"You really like not talking." Yamamoto gripped Superbi's arms. "Just say it. Tell me to go away and stay away, and I will. I just need you to say it."

A million scenarios played through Superbi's mind, all envisioning what would happen if he told Yamamoto to leave, that he was not the relationship type, that he wanted nothing more to do with him. And all he envisioned was his life as it was, blank, filled with mindless murder after murder, with a boss that did not care if he lived or died, as he chased the rage, power, and passion that would never be his. An empty life, undecorated, much like his bedroom.

"Stay, then. But don't get me wrong, you trash. It's just because I like regular sex." Superbi tried to make it sound harsh and uncaring, but his voice broke after the word "wrong," and he could not look away from Yamamoto's hypnotic gaze.

Yamamoto smiled, and Superbi saw the boy he fought seven years ago in that smile. "That's okay, Squalo. Just like sushi, every relationship has to start with a single ingredient."

Superbi started to laugh as he felt the tension break in two. "You and that goddamn sushi metaphor."

"You started it." Yamamoto drew Squalo closer. "I can still work for Tsuna from here. I think it will help him to have someone primarily in Italy."

"Yeah? Where are you going to live?"

"I like this room." Yamamoto beamed. "So I'll live here, with you."

"I didn't say that you could move into my room!"

"You didn't say that I couldn't."

"You obnoxious piece of trash, I'll--" Superbi found it difficult to argue with Yamamoto's tongue being shoved into his mouth. It was even more difficult to want to continue arguing with Yamamoto's hands sliding down to palm his crotch. He warmed to the touch, even if he was dubious about sharing his space.

"Sex first." Yamamoto murmured. "Argue about where I can put my Nintendo Wii later."

It did not occur to Superbi until a week later, when Yamamoto set his television system and video game consoles up in the corner of the room, that Yamamoto had learned more than _Attacco di Squalo_ from him--he had also learned how to distract Superbi with sex to get what he wanted.

_To be continued..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes:** This fic will be completed before Thanksgiving.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It was not unusual for Yamamoto to receive text messages in the middle of the night. It was also not unusual for him to reach over Superbi, grab the phone, and check the message. But it was unusual for him to suddenly snap the phone shut and pull away from Superbi.

Superbi raised his head from the pillow, annoyed by the sudden lack of warmth. Yamamoto stood, his back to Superbi, his shoulders slumped.

"Voi! Where are you going?"

Yamamoto turned to him, his face whiter than the moonlight. There was a cold void there, where only a few hours ago, there had been a warm smile. Superbi sat up, staring, his stomach sinking before Yamamoto even said anything.

"I have to go to the communication room," Yamamoto said, his voice barely above a whisper. He pulled his clothes on and walked out, his gait uneven, as if drugged.

Superbi quickly climbed out of bed, pulled his clothes on, and followed him. By the time he reached the communications room upstairs, he could hear voices trickling out from the open door. As he approached, his footfalls grew heavier and heavier. He heard the Storm brat's voice before he reached the room.

"What the fuck are we supposed to do now, Yamamoto? He's dead. _Dead._"

"I don't know, Gokudera. I wish I did."

Superbi peeked into the communications room, clutching the doorframe. Yamamoto stood before the wall monitor, staring up at Gokudera's image, not noticing Superbi. Yamamoto seemed very small and very pale. He was too slender. Had he not been eating enough? Superbi wondered if he ate too much of dinner and did not leave enough for Yamamoto.

Gokudera's image, on the other hand, seemed too large. His red shirt gleamed like blood, and when he shook behind his hands, he seemed to make the communications room tremble. "I was too late. By the time I got there, he wasn't breathing."

Yamamoto placed a hand on the screen. It became a dark mote on Gokudera's oversized silver head. "It wasn't your fault, Hayato," he said gently, in the same voice he reserved for Superbi, when they were alone and he would run his fingers through Superbi's hair. Superbi's knuckles ached from where he gripped the doorframe, and he fought back the urge to slam a sword through the wall monitor.

Gokudera looked up and wiped his eyes. "How would you know?" His voice grew cold. "You haven't been to Japan in almost three years."

A moment of awkward silence, and Yamamoto withdrew his hand from the screen. He stared at Gokudera. "That wasn't fair, and you know it."

Gokudera hung his head. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Yamamoto gave him a pained smile. "I'll call you as soon as the plane lands."

Gokudera nodded, and the wall screen turned blue. Yamamoto turned to the doorway. His gaze met Superbi's.

"Voi." Superbi had never spoken so quietly in his life. He took a few steps in, studying Yamamoto's face. The blue pallor cast upon the room by the screen matched Yamamoto's expression. "Who--?"

Yamamoto turned his face away and closed his eyes. "Tsuna. Someone shot Tsuna. The Millefiore, likely." His voice caught on his boss's name.

Superbi could not think of a single thing to say. He knew how much Tsuna meant to Yamamoto--without Tsuna, in many respects, there would be no Yamamoto. Superbi also knew how he would feel if Xanxus died. He would be lost and broken, as he had been when Xanxus had been trapped in his frozen prison for eight years. No focus, no direction, just existence without meaning.

Yamamoto put a hand on Superbi's shoulder and passed him. Superbi followed him back to their room. Yamamoto grabbed a bag and dumped it on the bed before pulling his clothing out of the closet.

"You're going back to Japan?"

The question was so stupid that even Yamamoto paused to give Superbi a look. Then he nodded and began to pack his clothing. Silence reigned as king, and Superbi watched him pack. Suits were folded, katanas cleverly hid within baseball bats that would not scan at the airport, rings and boxes tucked into Yamamoto's pockets, toothbrush and toothpaste slipped inside the suitcase's mesh pockets. Superbi only watched, unable to speak, knowing he should speak, say something, anything. But he had no words to offer the man who had slept beside him the past three years.

When he finished, Yamamoto hefted the suitcase and headed to the door. He paused by Superbi, looking down at him with wet brown eyes. "I'll miss you," he whispered, and brushed aside Superbi's hair to kiss his neck before leaving.

Superbi followed Yamamoto downstairs. He sat at the bottom of the steps and watched Yamamoto walk into the night. He sat there, staring at his hands, still trying to think of something to say, until sunlight streamed in through the windows. It was not until a shadow fell over him, and the smell of Old Spice and bourbon tickled his nose, that Superbi looked up--just in time to catch a face full of hot coffee. Superbi screamed as his face burned, but Xanxus seemed unmoved.

"Stop screaming like a goddamn whore and come to my office, shark," Xanxus rumbled, and walked past Superbi.

Superbi was not about to do that until after he dipped his face in ice water. It took him an hour to wash the coffee stains from his hair, and another half hour of screaming to get Lussuria to wake up and heal the burns on his face before he scarred. Two hours later, Superbi stomped into his boss's office wearing a clean uniform, with coffee-less hair, face healed, wondering how badly he had fucked things up with Yamamoto. He should go to Japan. Yamamoto would need him.

Xanxus sat in his overstuffed red chair by the window, staring out at the dewy morning. He took a sip from a fresh cup of coffee that made Superbi nervous just to look at it. Fucking boss.

"Voi! Are you gonna just stare at the fucking garden like some emo kid all morning, or was there a goddamn point to this?"

This time, when Xanxus threw his coffee, Superbi was prepared, and managed to avoid it--or at least most of it. Ceramic shards bounced off his leather sleeve and hot liquid stained Superbi's boots, but at least it was not his face. He stared expectantly at his boss.

Xanxus slouched back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach in that same way the Ninth used to fold his, giving Superbi an even look. "Sawada's dead. You know that. Shit's going down."

"What kind of shit?"

Xanxus pulled out a cigarette and lit it before answering. "War. I expect you to be ready. I want you focused on me, not on your pet samurai."

Superbi nodded, feeling as if he had swallowed a block of ice. Even if he had failed Yamamoto, he still had his job--and so did Yamamoto. They needed to attend to their bosses. He could not divide himself during war--he had to stay in Italy, as much as he might wish to be in Japan.

The thought of splitting himself in pieces brought to mind an old metaphor--or simile, Superbi did not know--a stupid joke between him and Yamamoto: working for the Varia was like eating a piece of sushi. You had to eat it whole.

"Let Lussuria know that Sasagawa is on his way with Sawada's dying wishes." Xanxus turned back to the window and took a drag from his cigarette.

Superbi exhaled and turned on his heel to do as he was told.

_To be concluded..._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes:** The story wound up a little shorter than I expected, so this is the final chapter. Thank you for reading!

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Backwards. Fucked up. Completely fucked up backwards. That was all Superbi could think as he stared across the burnt-out campfire at the boy who, in ten years, would become his lover.

"Still," Yamamoto said, swallowing another pain pill, "I am glad you showed up again." He smiled--a smile untarnished by the loss that his future self would know. He seemed little more than a child, though he had not seemed like that when Superbi first met him. But then, he had been younger, too. He felt as if he were meeting Yamamoto all over again.

"So, why did we stay out here in the woods, anyways?" Yamamoto asked when Superbi did not reply to him.

"Voooiii! Don't you ever shut up?" Yamamoto's smile did not waver, so Superbi sighed and responded. "It's better to train out here." He did not mention that he did not think it a good idea to take Yamamoto home. He wondered if this younger Yamamoto knew about his father, and if Superbi had to be the one to tell him.

Yamamoto fell mercifully silent for a long moment. He stared off into the trees and picked leaves and twigs from his hair. Sunlight filtered through the forest canopy, flashing across his thoughtful expression. Superbi kicked dirt into the campfire, even though the fire had long since gone out.

"I'd like to go home today," Yamamoto finally announced. "I didn't go home when we visited Namimori before. Because it's empty, you know." His voice broke a little, but then he smiled and continued. "But you're here now. So it should be okay, if you come."

"Voi! You're some kind of weirdo. What, do you think we're buddies or something?" Superbi's words came out angrier than he intended. But this was not his Yamamoto. This was a child left in his place. His Yamamoto had gone to Japan and would not come back until after Byakuran was defeated. "I'm just your trainer. And I beat your ass rather soundly last night. So focus on your swordwork."

Yamamoto kept smiling. "I need to go home, please. I won't win unless I do that, and then I'll shame both of us." His smile would have fooled anyone--anyone but Superbi. He knew to watch Yamamoto's eyes. They were deep and brown and sad--like his Yamamoto's had been.

Superbi found words as difficult as when he found out Sawada died. He thought of Yamamoto's father, with that smile just like Yamamoto's. He thought of how accepting the man must have been to never complain about Yamamoto's lifestyle. Superbi had barely known Yamamoto's father, but somehow, he felt the loss now. The loss of a father, something he had never had.

"Aren't you going to say anything?"

Superbi turned his face. "Fine. Pack your shit, and let's go."

Yamamoto fell silent again as they packed. His smile faded as he led Superbi into Namimori. The town was almost as quiet as they were, and what few people were about at this hour paid them little notice. Superbi studied the boy beside him as they walked, finding it strange to have to look down at Yamamoto again.

When they arrived at Takezushi, Yamamoto went to the back door. His key still worked. Superbi followed him inside, expecting to find the place still in shambles, but all he saw was the same neat, clean kitchen that he had once stitched Yamamoto's chin in. There was no mess, no broken furniture, no blood. Superbi put a hand on the counter where Yamamoto's father had once stood to the wash the rice, wondering if his Yamamoto had cleaned everything up when he found his father's corpse. Superbi thought he could smell faint traces of bleach in the air.

After flashing Superbi another unconvincing smile, Yamamoto wandered up the stairs. Superbi pretended not to watch him climb the steps, then sat at the kitchen table. An empty sushi plate setting lay on the table before him, clean enough to sparkle beneath the lights. Superbi stared at it for a long moment before pulling out his mobile. He scrolled through his call history, noting the last time Yamamoto had called: three weeks ago. The day Yamamoto's father died.

Superbi put his mobile away before he remembered that conversation or Yamamoto's hoarse monotone. He wondered where all the happiness had gone lately, if he would find the older Yamamoto's laughter hiding somewhere in this house, in a dusty corner where death had not thought to look yet. He wondered about the younger Yamamoto's laughter, if he still had it, or if reality had stolen it, too. He headed up the stairs to find out.

Yamamoto's bedroom door stood open, so Superbi walked right in. He found the boy sitting on the bed, staring at a picture in his hand. Superbi glanced at the picture. In it, Superbi and the adult Yamamoto sat at a sushi bar in Italy. Yamamoto had one arm slung around Superbi's shoulders and the other raised to give a thumbs-up sign. His grin stood in stark contrast to Superbi's wide-mouth scowl. Superbi remembered the moment when the picture had taken. He had punched Yamamoto in the stomach only just a minute later. He told him a thousand times never to touch him in public, but Yamamoto never listened. Now, Superbi realized he would give almost anything to feel the warmth of his Yamamoto's hand on his shoulder again.

Sighing, Superbi sat down beside the boy and studied him. Everything about him seemed softer and sweeter, yet in the past few days, he had grown stronger than the Yamamoto that Superbi knew. Finally, Yamamoto took the sword seriously and became the man Superbi wanted him to become--but the problem was that he was just a boy.

Yamamoto set the picture back down on the table by his bed. It stood beside another picture, one of Yamamoto's father as a young man. Yamamoto's father sat at a proper Japanese sushi bar, in almost the same position as Yamamoto, but with a surly Japanese woman under his arm.

"That your mother?" Superbi asked. He eyed the woman in the picture. She had a sultry beauty, though the cigarette dangling from her lips made her appear sardonic. Yamamoto resembled her strongly in appearance, though certainly not personality.

"Yeah." Yamamoto actually frowned. He had never spoken of his mother before.

"Did she die, too?"

Yamamoto glanced out the window. "I wouldn't know. She left when I was seven and never came back." He turned to Superbi. "But my dad's not dead. He's back in my time, probably wondering where I am. It's the other me who lost his dad." He sounded firm about this. Superbi wondered if that line of thinking made it hurt less.

Superbi studied Yamamoto's face. The lines of his face were clean and simple, fresh and new, like something right out of the box on Christmas morning, waiting to be assembled. Even so, Superbi could see fear and sorrow lurking in Yamamoto's eyes. "You're wishing your future self stuck to baseball, aren't you?"

Yamamoto glanced at the photo with Superbi and himself at the Italian sushi bar. "Would you have been interested in me if I only played baseball?"

"Probably not."

Yamamoto laughed, and for a moment, Superbi could see the man Yamamoto would grow to be. Moments passed with nothing but the two of them staring at each other. Yamamoto ran his fingers across Superbi's neck, brushing aside Superbi's hair, and he kissed Superbi's throat. Superbi closed his eyes and smelled the green foliage of the forest that still clung to Yamamoto, making him seem rich and real. The kiss felt the same as the last one his Yamamoto had given him before leaving for Japan.

And then Superbi remembered it was the boy, only a boy, who kissed him and shoved Yamamoto across the bed. "Voooiii! Perverted kid!"

But Yamamoto grinned, undaunted. "You must really like that. I like the way you sucked in your breath when I did it. Do I do that a lot?"

"Listen up, _you_ don't do anything to me, you fucking piece of trash! Do that again, and I'll cut your lips off."

As if on cue, Yamamoto leaned forward and tried to kiss Superbi again, but Superbi was quicker. He grabbed Yamamoto's face and pushed him back again. "Knock it off, katana-brat!"

"But you didn't cut my lips off." Yamamoto laughed again. Light flashed through the window blinds, spotlighting him for just a moment. He lay back on the bed, in almost the same exact position he had taken when he and Superbi first fucked. The sight made Superbi's pulse quicken. He almost pounced the boy and ripped off his clothes, suddenly desperate for the distraction of soft kisses and warm flesh.

Almost.

"You're too fucking young."

"Oh." Yamamoto's smile faded. "I see. I'm sorry. That was stupid of me. You're not my Squalo."

"What?"

Yamamoto hung his head. "My future self would never forgive me for trying to take his Squalo. I'm so sorry."

Superbi stared at him. "You fucking moron," he said gently. Yamamoto raised his head and smiled at that. It was just like him, at any age, to smile at Superbi's insults.

"I want to change the future, to save my father, but I don't want to lose you. When I go back, do you think the you from my time will still become mine?"

Words had failed Superbi before, but words would not fail him now. He put his artificial hand on Yamamoto's head, and his finger's sensors registered the thick nest of black of hair beneath its fingertips. "So long as you don't fail the sword. You just have to remember to devote yourself to it. And if you devote yourself to the sword, you've devoted yourself to me."

Yamamoto's brown eyes seemed wide and innocent as he listened. Just like when Superbi had first tried to explain it to him. Superbi smirked and thought of that old, stupid sushi metaphor--or simile, he could not tell the difference--he had used to drive his point home. "The sword and me, we're pieces of sushi. You have to put the whole thing in your mouth. You can't eat us in pieces. All or nothing."

Peals of laughter burst out of Yamamoto. Superbi lifted his hand and snarled. "Voi! Stop laughing!"

"I'm sorry, I can't help it! You're really hilarious, Squalo. I love the ridiculous things you say."

"I said to stop laughing, dammit!"

Yamamoto grinned. "It was kinda hot, though. Eat you whole, huh? Kinky. Does the future me do that a lot?"

"Shut up! How the hell do you get to be a pervert in middle-high, anyways, you fucking brat?"

"Don't worry, Squalo. I won't try anything perverted until I get back to my time and my own Squalo." Yamamoto quieted, but he still smiled. "The other me is really lucky."

"Peh." Superbi repressed a smile and stood up. "He's going to really fucking unlucky if you and your trash friends don't fucking get your shit together and defeat Byakuran."

"I'll get him back for you," Yamamoto promised, and when he said it, Superbi believed him. In that boy's smile lay an entire world of possibilities untouched by death and loss, unknown to Byakuran. A world where Superbi's Yamamoto would return and walk up to him, brush his hair aside, and kiss his neck. A world worth fighting for, no matter the cost.

"Now, let's go back to training, katana-brat," Superbi said, heading to the doorway. "You have still have teeth left. I'll fix that for you."

Yamamoto laughed and followed--just as he was always meant to.

_Owari._


End file.
